


Down

by empiremind (justlikeabaroness)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Fire, Gen, slight profanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 08:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13923060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeabaroness/pseuds/empiremind
Summary: When Caleb is angry, he tries to escape.





	Down

**Author's Note:**

> My theory as to Caleb's backstory, no real spoilers past C2E9. Don't message me about how he doesn't hate Jester, I know he doesn't, it's called fiction. 
> 
> "Miststück" means bastard.

He's tired of eating dirt, Caleb decides, even as he spits out a clump that's trickled into his mouth, walk finally slowing from a clenched-fist stalk down to a tired, downcast, loping amble. He's tired of settling for scrap, of being the one happy with scraps, of smiling at his superiors' leavings. 

And yet he has to calm down, at least for now. He can't go haring all over Zadash in a rage, at least not the way he's dressed. Some _Miststück_ will decide he's insane, and convey him to the Humber before he can think of what to summon. Caleb tries to take a breath, two, three, but it's barely successful. It's hard not to fume. A couple of jumped-up pigs mocking him, _**kicking his cat**_ , blocking him from their precious elite quarter like a boy-child blocking girls from his treehouse, somehow stealing his magic away from him (even temporarily, that hurts) and on top of that, fucking Jester?

He stops stalking away from the Tri-spires, right in the middle of the street for a second, darting sideways on instinct into a covered alley, realizing he's balled his fists again. He doesn't want to Talk, and if he goes back to Nott and the party right now, they'll want to Talk. Especially Fjord. Especially Beau. Beau, who knows everything. How is she always so sure of herself, and how does she always wind up on her feet even when she's talking shit? For that matter, why is she even allowed to talk so much shit? Why doesn't she shut up? 

If he concentrates, though, he can lose everything, at least for now, and he needs to escape. 

The smell and the noises of the busy road disappear first, as Caleb looks down, trying to even his breathing. Pavement is swapped for cornfields, yellowish stalks just beginning to turn white bowing in the light breeze. The colors deepen, going from the washed-too-hard, bled-out greys and whites and browns of the city walls and roofs to a deeper, newer hue - a brand new thatched roof on a tiny, one-room shack propped up with peeling planks of once-painted wood, a newly turned over patch of dark dirt, and the deep red of a smart new uniform. 

He's replayed the moment a thousand times between then and now - the coat of a warmage of the Empire, his mother's exhausted but vibrant ghost of a smile, his father's clap on the back. The words of praise for Making Something Of Himself, of accepting a post where he can do good, save lives, become someone. Being a soldier is hard, but Caleb believes. He'll send as much silver home as possible - maybe, just maybe, they can own this place before being called home. Be buried in their own dirt, under their own soil. 

Caleb the farmer's boy knows there's few more honest ways to go, but honesty doesn't enter into it when you're angry and scared and running for your life. When you're a scared private, warmage or no, being told to incinerate a home, who knows who might be in there - their landlord defied the King, so up it goes. Round the edges, men, each side of the roof gets a firebolt, there's a good lad. Death to the enemies of the empire, and all that. Stand true and honest. Admit your deeds and smile even as you hear the screaming man and woman inside. Salute your superior as you watch the peasant burn to death in front of you. 

Dirt isn't honest, but at the same time, it's the most honest thing he's ever had; it used to nourish him, help him learn, and it hides him now, letting him walk even through Zadash itself (though not to the King's Hall, please!) estranged and divorced from the proud peacock he'd once been. That smart uniform coat is gone, crushed underfoot as he'd run from the barracks at night, disguising himself as the first thing he'd thought of to throw off suspicion, doing anything he could to run from what he sees in his dreams at night. Sure, he could face that man and his stolen identity, could stop hiding, stop running, could take his punishment like a man, but that's not what people like him do. Because he is a coward, and he does not want to die.

Caleb knows - he can throw it away temporarily, but the dirt comes back. (Jester thinks so, too. A "child's allowance" isn't enough to buy your way out of the muck.) After all this time, it's a safety blanket, it's a sense of security, and it gives him options. It's his cloak, but it's also a prison, and instead of the guards, Caleb hates himself for that. 

And he does hate Jester. Just a little. 

He feels a little bad about that. The fatherless girl, alone with only her imagination and her proto-deity for company, raised on a diet of pocket money and laughter instead of a mother's love. He doesn't blame her, really; no one has been there to teach her better. She deserves better. 

But so does he. So it still hurts, and it's arguably worse because people fuck up a lot. He'd told her before not to fuck it up, and yet Jester's gone and done it anyway.

Caleb can feel his hands unclenching, even as his mind is drifting away from his parents' farm, their tiny landholding they'd lost just before their deaths. They still lie in the dirt at that homestead, but it's not theirs. And all of Jester's gold that she's ever had can't fix that now, so what does it matter? Why does it bother him that she's spoiled? His parents are dead, he's still a murderer, and his cat will cost 10 GP to lure back. 

But he has Nott, and he has his memories, and he has his pride. And he has the dirt.

At least he can still make a home there. Caleb takes a deep, ragged breath, stepping out of the alley, dour, yet calmer. He decides once or twice to smile his filthy smile at immaculate passers-by, enjoying acting out of pure spite.


End file.
